


Thank God for Stamford

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Everyone's in closets in this one, F/M, First Meeting Fix It, Instant Passion, M/M, public make out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 01:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17757473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: A fix it for John and Sherlock's first meeting. Mike Stamford is an unwitting witness to their instant attraction and inadvertently stuck in the lab when the two act on said attraction. Thankfully it gets him something he's always wanted.As requested by @kabes on Twitter. Sorry this is a bit more Mike and Molly than John and Sherlock, but that's just how it worked out!





	Thank God for Stamford

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kabes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabes/gifts).



          “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street,” with an unbearably cocky little wink (when had he learned that?!) the normally abrasive genius pushed open the lab door and swaggered out, the epitome of well-dressed cool.

          Mike Stamford smothered a laugh and glanced at John, expecting him to be rolling his eyes or laughing at the display. Instead he was gobsmacked to see his former schoolmate staring at the door with almost feverish eyes. “Wait!” John called hoarsely, and unmindful of his cane, his dignity, or Mike, he plunged after the younger man. “Sherlock, wait!”

          Mike blinked in surprise, watching John hot-foot it out the door; well, this was unexpected. Although possibly not—Sherlock was renowned for rubbing people up the wrong way and John Watson—at least the John he’d known years ago, had a rather legendary temper. Obviously he’d been a bit miffed at being deduced down to his toenails and then smirked at and dismissed. Mike had thought he’d be tying a neat bow on the problems of two of his friends and here he’d apparently started…something.

          Oh. Oh my. Apparently a _physical_ sort of something. Mike, a stand-up guy, nevertheless couldn’t help but look at the long, narrow glass in the door when he heard a rather vigorous thump. Visible was a shoulder clad in the dark blue wool of Sherlock’s ridiculous coat, and flattened on the glass just above it was a small, capable hand. Even as Mike watched, fascinated, the fingers flexed to white points, and then the hand slid with a slick, sharp squeal down the glass and wrapped around the wool-clad arm.

          Feeling a bit of a perv, Mike looked away, but nothing could prevent him from hearing the solid clunk of what was no doubt an inky-curl topped head falling against the door, followed by a deep moan. There was no mistaking it for a groan of pleasure. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, impressed. This was fast, even for John Watson.

          Just as he was trying to decide whether to remain trapped in the lab like some kind of peeping Tom, or knock on the door and interrupt what was apparently a very heated kiss, the door to the store room swung open. “Sherlock, I can’t reach a box of slides on the top shelf, I don’t suppose you could—” The soft voice of Molly Hooper cut off abruptly as she appeared with loaded arms, “Oh, hello Mike.” She looked around, ponytail swinging cheerfully. Mike’s heart gave a little bounce. “Where’s Sherlock gotten to?”

          “He, erm…” in the midst of debating the most politic reply, Mike’s circumspection was taken from him by a squeaking of the door hinges. Molly looked toward the door and her sweet brown eyes widened. Unable to resist, Mike felt his eyes once more drag back toward the show going on. Now _John_ was the one backed up against the door, his hair a pinwheel of finger-ruffled blond messiness. A pair of pale, long fingered hands were busy, one rucking up his cardigan and shirt, the other grasping onto his denim clad bum as if for dear life.

          “ _Christ_ ,” they heard John’s voice rasp faintly through the thick door.

          The soft gasp of shocked dismay confirmed for Mike that Molly had indeed had a crush on Sherlock. He reminded himself sensibly that Molly was free to bestow her affections on anyone she so chose. The fact that Mike was carrying a flame for her was beside the point. “He’s erm, busy,” Mike said, clearing his throat loudly, half hoping the pair in the hallway would hear and realize they were taking one another apart in public. No such luck. “You, uh, needed something?” Mike asked desperately, looking for an escape from the show and from his own feelings.

          Molly tore her eyes away, looking flushed, “Oh, um, yes. Yes, please!” She peeked back toward the door then turned determined eyes on him, “I-if you don’t mind.” She put her armload of supplies on the counter and glanced back over her shoulder at the squeaking door.

          “Not at all,” Mike said courteously, holding open the door.

          “It’s this one here,” Molly pointed, biting her lip. “Can you reach it?”

          Mike pulled himself to his fullest height, “Of course.” Maybe.

          “Thanks…” Molly hesitated, “So is that an old friend of Sherlock’s or—”

          “Old friend of mine, actually,” Mike grunted, stretching the last inch to get a good hold on the box. “Just introduced them.” Perhaps that was unkind, but he was suddenly feeling old and annoyed. It must be nice to just grab at what you wanted.

          “Oh.” Molly was chewing her bottom lip, he saw when he turned toward her. She smiled a bit too brightly, “It’s nice that they’re getting along,” she said a bit lamely.

          Mike wanted to apologize, but it would only make the situation more uncomfortable. “I’ll…just look and see if they’re um, done, shall I?”

          Molly took the box from him and stood waiting, head down slightly. Mike cracked open the door and poked his head out into the lab, looking toward the hall door. There was no sight of the pair of them, no moans, no squeaks or thuds or shudders. Mike closed the door and faced her solemnly, “Still there,” he lied smoothly, with only a modicum of guilt, “Shall I go remind them that they’re erm, in public?”

          “Oh goodness, no!” Molly pressed a tiny hand to her pink cheek, “That would be so embarrassing!”

          “Might be a bit of a while,” Mike said, taking the box of slides from her and tucking it under one arm. “Hope you weren’t needing to go anywhere important.” He had a meeting with his department head but some things were more vital; it wasn’t every day he got the chance to be alone with the woman of his dreams. Mike wasn’t a grabber…but he could take a chance for once in his settled life.

          “I was just going for my coffee break,” Molly admitted, fiddling with one of the buttons on her lab coat, “after that I have nothing on but paperwork.”

          “Perhaps,” Mike drew in a steadying breath, “you’d care to go for coffee with me?” He smiled, “Or dinner?”

          Molly’s lips parted, she looked a bit dazed, “C-coffee? With you?” Before Mike’s confidence could wilt she smiled, “That’d be lovely, Mike.” She ducked her head, blushing, “Maybe we could save dinner for a s-second date?”

          _Bless you, John Watson_ , Mike thought with gratitude. He smiled broadly at Molly, “I’d like nothing better.”

 

******

 

          “There’s another room upstairs…if you’ll be needing two rooms,” the landlady said, smiling archly.

          John smothered a smile, and looked across the room at his new…Sherlock. “Don’t think we will, actually,” he said, noting the relieved softening of the younger man’s shoulders as he hunted through one of the teetering stacks of boxes, “but thanks.” He was barely aware of the pleased smile and softly clasped hands of the older woman, eyes on the exceptional arse, clad in fine black wool.

          Bright eyes peered slyly at him as Mrs Hudson nattered on, moving about the flat fussing at Sherlock for his mess and telling John about the amenities. John smiled slowly and watched with interest the colour creep up in those high cheekbones. The man was almost insufferably self-confident, but one hot and hasty interlude in a janitor’s closet and he was suddenly as delicately coy as a geisha.

          _Thank God for Stamford_ , John thought, settling easily into a worn old armchair, eyes on the slim figure of the most interesting man he’d ever met. Slowly the sound of police sirens reached his ears, and his instincts leapt to life as Sherlock shot to his feet, eyes bright with glee, “There’s been another!”

          As he turned to John, breathlessly asking if he’d join him, John jumped to his feet thoughtlessly, blood already racing through his veins. “Yes,” he said roughly. Yes to all of it.

         


End file.
